


the coppernado is back

by leoandsnake



Series: un jour je serai de retour [3]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, alcohol withdrawals, case stuff, cop stuff, exes bickering, exes who still have feelings and are big mad about it, getting the task force back together, harry kim and jean try to avert the class war, harry kim jean cop teamup, the gang goes back to martinaise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/leoandsnake
Summary: Jean laughs. “You’ve always outranked me. You were late to the force, but you’re ten years older than I am, and you were a psychopath about getting promoted. I couldn’t keep up with you. I rode your coattails, and then the ride ended, and I started cleaning up your mess instead. I’ll be a Satellite-Officer until one of us dies.”RHETORIC: There’s a bittersweetness to the way he says this. This is the closest to marriage that he’s ever wanted to get.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Series: un jour je serai de retour [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095374
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	the coppernado is back

After the Major Crimes Unit has been officially reconstituted, it takes two entire days for the situation in Martinaise to explode.

On Day 1, two officers from Precinct 57 arrive to “assist” the 41st’s patrol teams — really, what they want is to wrest back jurisdiction of the harbor, which the 41st is happy to give them, because they haven’t been able to get inside the harbor yet anyway.

On Day 2, one of those cops from the 57th, a member of Kim’s former décomptage named Selten Gerstler, gets fed up with the harbor’s inaccessibility and presses his luck with Measurehead.

Measurehead promptly beat the consciousness from Selten. Selten’s partner, Tommy Boyer, took out his pistol, which Measurehead relieved him of before saying, “GO HOME.”

A terrified Tommy dragged Selten’s torpid body all the way back down the stairs and through the streets, while Union men leaning on lamp posts or from open windows booed and jeered at them.

Titus Hardie even pushed open the side door of the Whirling to yell at Tommy, “You get the point? You’re not the law around here!” as Tommy was heaving Selten into the backseat of their MC.

So the 57th is now down by one cop and one pistol. All of this information is relayed to them that night by Sebastian Barbieri and Manon Maxwell, calling in via radio.

The current task force is sitting around in a conference room to listen — Harry, Jean, Kim, Judit, Sundance Fischer (only out of morbid curiosity, he has openly admitted), Mack, Chester and Maggie Pantoffel, who is new to the precinct and therefore easy for them to lie to about Harry’s mental fitness. When they hang up with Manon and Sebastian, everyone sits in silence for a moment.

The sun has already gone down over Jamrock, and the conference room is dimly lit by the halogens scattered overhead. Downstairs in the bullpen, they can hear cops packing up to go home for the day, and the front doors opening to let in the incoming night shift.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Bodies move back and forth, in and out of the building. The day shift cops are relieved to go, and the night shift cops are dreading the next ten to twelve hours. Under the cover of night is when the real crime gets going — shootings, stabbings, your larger drug deals, your body dumpings, your burglaries of office buildings for the purposes of corporate espionage.

Kim is the first to break the silence. “They’re not grasping the culture there,” he murmurs, removing his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “The RCM can’t abandon a district for decades and expect to be able to force ourselves on it at the drop of a hat.”

“What do you expect?” Mack says. “They’re beat cops. We didn’t send sergeants or detectives, we sent guys with guns to enforce some order.”

“That’s not how Martinaise works,” Kim says.

EMPATHY: That’s not how any police work works, he’s thinking.

“Fine them all,” Chester says. “Start fining everyone in the harbor until someone gives up the fatsos.”

“They simply won’t pay,” Kim says. “This is what I was afraid of, when we started dumping uniformed officers into Martinaise. Not only do we now look weak, but we’ve also tipped our hand. They now know how badly we want to get into the harbor.”

“Is that a problem?” Judit says. “The Claires are aware we arrested Dros.”

“Yes, but they don’t know what, if anything, he was able to tell us,” Kim says. “We haven’t formally charged him with Tiphaine Holly’s murder. That information is not yet in COMINSUR. Unless there’s a leak from within our precinct or the 57th, which I wouldn’t discount as a possibility, then the Claires can only _suspect_ what we know. The more the RCM tries to batter its way into the harbor, after we’ve already solved Kortenaer’s murder and taken in a suspect, the more suspicious the Union will get about our endgame.”

Everyone is quiet again for a moment.

“Harry,” Kim says.

Harry looks over at him. “Yes.”

“What do you think?”

They all look at Harry, now, including Jean, who hasn’t spoken yet. He seems absorbed in thought.

AUTHORITY: Agree with whatever Kim just said.

“I think Kim’s right,” Harry says. “This is a surgical operation, you can’t do surgery with a hammer.”

“Gottlieb could,” Sundance murmurs.

“We can’t send Gottlieb to Martinaise,” Jean says, but he’s smiling.

“I think we have to withdraw our patrol officers and go back ourselves, as soon as possible,” Kim says to Harry. “Sooner than we had anticipated.”

“Hold on,” Mack says, putting a hand up. “Lieutenant, with all due respect — we barely know you, and Captain Sober is hanging on by a thread.”

“Yes, it should be a team of three,” Judit agrees, folding her arms across her chest. “Kim, Jean, and Harry.”

Jean’s head snaps up. “Why me?”

“Because that’s what Pryce wants,” Judit says. “And because Kim and Harry are the ones who know the facts on the ground, but Harry is still recovering, and you’re his partner.”

“I won’t go to Martinaise just to nurse Harry,” Jean says irritably.

“Harry doesn’t need to be nursed,” Harry says, though his voice catches in his throat as he says this. It’s been a very hard few days for him. He hasn’t had a drink, unless you count the dribbles of vodka that he drained from various bottles strewn around his apartment last night. He doesn’t, because that was a humiliating experience.

Harry decides not to talk further, in case he starts crying, because that would destroy the remaining shreds of his tattered credibility with everyone sitting around this table. Even Maggie, who right now just looks confused.

“You’re still recovering from a gunshot wound,” Jean says, without looking at him.

Jean has been avoiding him for days, now, ever since they kissed. Harry even went to his apartment yesterday and banged on the door like a lunatic, but all Jean did was open the chained door and say through the crack, “I’m not letting you in, and if you break in, I will shoot you.”

“I can tend to my own gunshot wound, thank you,” Harry says. “I have been for _days_ now.”

He can tell Jean is taking great pains to not roll his eyes at his partner in front of a room full of people.

“You were happy to hang out around Martinaise for days on end with me, observing Harry,” Judit counters.

“I was not happy to,” Jean says. “I was unhappy to. I was _forced_ to, by exigent circumstances.”

Kim interrupts, then, giving Jean a significant look. “If you’re fundamentally opposed to this detail, then please, don’t accept it,” he says.

EMPATHY: That’s not reverse psychology — he finds your back-and-forth sniping unproductive and stressful.

Jean seems to take it as reverse psychology, though. He hesitates before saying, “I’m not opposed to it. I’m a member of this task force. I’m just not sure how helpful I would be.”

“You’re a good cop,” Kim says. “I’d like to have you along. And three heads are better than two.”

Jean clearly feels obligated to say yes now.

Harry still hasn’t quite worked out the power structure of the 41st, yet, and he only has bits and pieces of his memories to guide him along. Jean outranks everyone in the room except Harry and Kim, who both outrank him on paper, though Harry slightly moreso. But due to Harry’s amnesia, everyone is treating him like a puppet ruler, which means Kim is essentially in charge of the task force. However, Kim wields power so subtly that it can be hard to pick up on.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You used to do that, too. You used to be a player-coach.

It occurs to Harry that technically, with the arrival of Kim, Jean is now third in command — but really, he’s second, because Harry is in command in name only. Really, it’s like Kim said. They’re a three-headed monster: Harry has the rank, Jean has the trust of their underlings, and Kim has the actual authority.

HALF LIGHT: Let the three-headed monster descend on Martinaise!

Harry makes eye contact with Jean and nods encouragingly, making The Expression. Jean breaks the eye contact and heaves a sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This has less to do with Harry or with Kim than it does with that poor bastard Selten Gerstler, lying in a hospital bed with a cracked skull. A brother of the RCM who bears its insignia on his arm. One of them. Jean has allowed this brotherhood to burrow deeply into his heart.

“Sounds good,” Kim says. “Judit and Mack can, ah… hold down the fort.”

“Consider it held,” Judit says, and Mack nods.

/

Tomorrow morning falls on a Friday, and it’s raining again, but a soft spring rain. The world is beginning to turn green at the edges.

Kim drives the three of them in. He likes to drive, and Jean does not; Harry remembers this about him, now. Memories keep floating to the surface of his mind like algae, and the Jean-related ones are often the small details of a person that you come to know intimately after years of close contact.

For instance, Jean liked his RCM horse. Jean did not like it when Harry insisted that all detectives have cars instead of horses. In fact, you could go as far as to say that Jean was actively resentful over the loss of his horse.

SUGGESTION: Apologize for that. He’ll appreciate it.

“I’m sorry about your horse,” Harry says, into the silence of the car.

Kim continues driving, as if Harry hadn’t spoken. Jean, in the passenger seat, turns around. He looks surprised, but not confused.

“That’s the last thing you need to be apologizing for,” Jean says, meeting his eyes.

“What’s the first one?” Harry says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jean says, still looking into his eyes.

“Why not?”

EMPATHY: Because you have amnesia. If you apologized for it, it wouldn’t be _you_ apologizing — it would be this half-you, this post-you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: There’s not a specific event he even wants you to apologize for. There’s not one singular worst thing you did. It was the accumulation of months of drunken cruelty.

Harry realizes, while looking into Jean’s eyes, that Jean was the one who ended things with him. He’s been mistaking Jean’s bitterness for the bitterness of a dumpee, but it’s often the dumpers who are the bitter ones, aren’t they? At least when it’s a morbid alcoholic they’re having to dump. The groundwork for the dumping is dozens of slights and wounds inflicted by the dumpee, who then spirals into despair; the dumper is clear-eyed, jaw clenched, resentful.

Floating away in an airship.

“I’m sorry anyway,” Harry says.

Jean nods and turns back around. A moment later, he lights a cigarette.

/

The drive into Martinaise feels familiar, even though Harry doesn’t remember having ever driven into Martinaise before, only leaving it. Kim’s Coupris Kineema rolling into its familiar spot outside the Whirling-in-Rags, and its roaring engine slowly powering down into quiescence, are even more familiar.

When he stops the car, Kim clears his throat. “I’m not sure how welcome we are here, after the events of yesterday,” he says in a low voice. “I think it’s reasonable to expect us to be greeted with suspicion and fear. Harry and I did gain some trust and goodwill while we were here, but Union loyalty runs deep.”

Jean pulls his jacket back, exposing his gun in its holster. “As expected.”

“To be clear, I don’t want to shoot anyone,” Kim says quickly.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting we’d have to shoot our way into the Whirling,” Jean says. “I’m just saying, I’m prepared.”

“Kim shot a guy in the eyes,” Harry says with pride. “ _Fatally_. Even though he can’t see a foot in front of his face.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Go for an Ace’s High.

Harry lifts his hand. Kim looks bemused, but slaps it.

“I read about that in your report,” Jean says to Kim. “You downplayed it.”

“I don’t take any pleasure in shooting people,” Kim says.

EMPATHY: He took a little pleasure in shooting that particular people.

“Neither do I,” Jean says. “Nor Harry, even when he was deranged from alcoholism.”

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: Being deranged from alcoholism actually makes it much harder to shoot people — not that you were attempting to shoot anyone but yourself, anyway.

“I expect we’ll get static from the management at the Whirling,” Kim says. “The Union has a lot of sway there.” He’s quiet for a moment. “We should get out of the car. Everyone heard us drive up, and everyone’s seen my MC.”

Jean doesn’t even bother to verbally agree, he just opens the door and drops down onto the pavement. Kim, on his own side, opens his door and drops down onto the cracked mosaic tile. Harry follows them, a little less gracefully. His knees are achy, and his gunshot wound hurts.

He takes the lead out in front of the three of them — the face of the three-headed RCM monster. It’s only around nine in the morning, and the rain has dissipated, leaving a hazy sun in the middle of the sky. No one is out in the street except for a handful of derelicts and some lorry drivers hanging around the jam.

Harry pulls open the door to the Whirling and holds it open for Kim and Jean, who enter behind him. There are a few people sitting in the cafeteria, drinking coffee, looking world-weary. In the Union booth sit Titus, Alain, Eugene, and two guys who Harry doesn’t recognize.

PERCEPTION: Presumably the guy who is the same height as Titus, and resembles him, is his brother Tibbs.

“Tibbs,” Harry says to Kim.

Kim nods.

Titus very obviously sees them come in with his peripheral vision, but he takes a moment to turn his head; he’s in conversation with Eugene and Probably-Tibbs. When he does look over, he sizes up Jean, then makes eye contact with Harry and gives him a small nod.

AUTHORITY: He respects you. But he will still kill you if you make him kill you.

HALF LIGHT: Fair enough! Bring it on.

Sylvie is back behind the bar. Harry winces when he sees her; he knows there’s about to be guilt and recriminations. He keeps walking, though, and she finally looks up. Then her eyes widen in horror.

“No!” she exclaims.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says.

“Garte promised me! He told me you were back in Jamrock, he saw you!”

“There’s a lot of confidential police information that Garte isn’t privy to,” Harry says clumsily, “which determines my movements.”

“Hi,” Kim says, reaching out to shake her hand. “Sylvie? We haven’t met. I’m Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, I work with Lieutenant Du Bois. This is Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare. We’ll be in Martinaise for a few days in an effort to resolve the conflict between the Union and the RCM. We’d like to book rooms for the night.”

“You two can book rooms,” Sylvie says, then points to Harry. “He can’t.”

Jean laughs a genuinely amused laugh. “Is this yet another one of your victims?” he says to Harry.

Sylvie lets out a strangled huff. “Do the cops only come to Martinaise to mock and harass us?”

“No, miss, you misunderstand,” Jean says. “I am also one of his victims.” He points to Kim. “So is this poor bastard.”

Kim looks strained.

EMPATHY: He’s realizing Jean can be as much of a loose cannon as you are, you’re just such a mess that he normally looks buttoned-up by comparison.

“We saved everyone in town from getting mowed down by tin man psycho killers with heavy artillery,” Harry says to Sylvie. “I took a bullet in my leg. Garte let us stay for free! What happened to that?”

“I wasn’t here for that, and I’m not Garte!” she exclaims. “And you also threatened to blow your brains out in front of me!”

“Well, _Sylvie_ , I don’t remember doing that!”

Jean puts his elbows down on the bar. “Unfortunately,” he says to Sylvie, “we need Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois with us. We would prefer that we didn’t, but it is what it is. We’ll keep a very close eye on him, though.”

“You didn’t before,” Harry interjects.

Jean looks over at him, his light eyes blazing.

“I’m just saying, you did fail at that before. You let me drive my car into the sea.”

“I _let you drive your car into the sea_?” Jean repeats, like he can’t believe that’s what he just heard.

“ _I_ kept a close eye on you,” Kim says.

“Not after hours,” Harry says. “I broke into Cuno’s dad’s apartment after you went to bed, and then I —” He breaks off; Sylvie is staring at him. He winks at her.

“You can’t even _have_ three rooms,” Sylvie says, shuddering and looking back toward Jean. “One of our rooms is taken, only two are available.”

“Which rooms are available?” Kim says.

“The middle room, and the murder room,” Sylvie says. “Sorry, the duplex.”

“I’ll take the middle room,” Kim says, handing her some reál, which she takes with a look of regret.

Jean glances at Kim. “So, what — does Harry sleep in your MC, then?”

“I can sleep in my shack,” Harry offers. “Or the dumpster.”

“You’re healing from a gunshot wound,” Jean says. “You can’t sleep in a shack or a dumpster.”

Kim tucks his billfold back into the interior of his jacket. “You could share the duplex, detectives,” he says. “There’s a couch on the first floor.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Kim, the madman! He wants you and Jean to be alone so you can fuck!

LOGIC: No. He does not want that. He just doesn’t want to share a room with Harry. He likes his privacy, and he likes things to be orderly. Also, implausibly, relations between you and Jean seem to break down even more when you’re _not_ in close quarters, so this is a moonshot attempt to broker peace.

“I don’t want the couch,” Harry says to Jean. “I’d rather sleep in the abandoned pinball factory.”

Jean throws his hands in the air. “I don’t understand anything you just said. Fine, for now, we’ll take the duplex. You can sleep on the bathroom floor, for all I care.” He turns back to Sylvie. “When does your other guest leave?”

Sylvie shrugs, looking exhausted from this conversation. “I have no idea,” she says. To Harry, she says, “I can’t serve you any alcohol during your stay.”

Harry tips his hat at her in acknowledgement, then turns to Jean. “Would this be a good time to remind you that I have literally no money?”

“Oh, I know,” Jean says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you. I’ll take care of the bill, don’t worry.”

Harry gives him finger guns as he hands his reál to Sylvie.

/

Harry stays downstairs tuning the radio while Jean is upstairs, putting their luggage away. The radio is helpful — he doesn’t remember most of the things it talks about, but it patches up some of the more gaping holes.

He learns that the Bank of the World is hoarding gold, should fiat currency collapse, and, much more pressingly, that Contact Mike has died of a cerebral hemorrhage.

“Contact Mike is dead!” Harry exclaims as soon as Jean comes down the stairs and into view.

“Shit, really?” Jean says, looking genuinely thrown by this. “Of what?”

“Cerebral hemorrhage.”

Jean nods. “That’s not shocking.”

“ _I’m_ shocked,” Harry says, as tears well in his eyes. “I find this devastating. Why do I find this so devastating?”

“You really admired Contact Mike, for some reason,” Jean says. “You used to listen to his fights on the radio while you were doing paperwork.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: It’s true.

“What’s fiat currency?” Harry says, wiping his cheeks.

“Paper currency,” Jean says. He doesn’t comment on Harry crying, so he must be used to it. “Intrinsically worthless, with an assigned value.”

“Aren’t all values assigned?”

“I think it’s more of a question of scarcity,” Jean says, sounding distracted. He’s looking around the room with cop-face on, scanning all entry points, cataloguing the interior in his head.

Harry accepts this explanation and opts to move on. “We have to pay our respects to Contact Mike,” he says.

“How?” Jean says warily, like he’s expecting the process to involve alcohol.

“Punching people,” Harry says. “It’s what he would have wanted. We have to go punch the shit out of Measurehead.”

Jean goes over and takes a seat on the couch across from Harry, bouncing on it a little like he’s testing how comfortable it is. That’s considerate of him. “You think you can take him down, hmm?” he says.

RHETORIC: He’s indulging you so he can make fun of you, but feel free to pretend he isn’t.

“I think I can, if I had the element of surprise on my side,” Harry says. “I ripped the faucet off the sink in there.” He points in the direction of his old room.

“Why?” Jean says.

“I don’t know. Fit of sexy masculine rage.”

Jean closes his eyes.

EMPATHY: He finds this attractive and absolutely despises himself for it. He’s experiencing off-the-chart levels of self-disgust right now.

“Where do we start today?” Jean says, opening his eyes. “After we’ve _punched out Measurehead_ , of course.”

“I know you’re making fun of me,” Harry says, “but I don’t care. Vic.”

“Don’t call me Vic. You’ve never called me that in your life.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I was making fun of you back.”

“Well met."

“I think we should track down the connects me and Kim made. Pound the pavement. Work the sidewalk.”

“You like to work the sidewalk?” Jean says, sounding disbelieving. “You know, you were only a patrol officer for three months before you got promoted to sergeant.”

“Is that true?” Harry takes a seat at the writing desk, because his leg is bothering him.

Jean nods.

“Why so fast?”

“The brass thought you had leadership potential,” Jean says. “Also, two of their sergeants got mowed down in a gunfight with La Puta Madre’s guys right after you came on the scene. Good luck on your part.” He pauses. “Or maybe bad luck, in the long run.”

“When did we meet?” Harry says.

“I was twenty-nine,” Jean replies. He can obviously tell that Harry is still lost, so he adds, “This was five years ago.”

“We met five years ago?”

“Yes,” Jean says. He looks tired.

“When did we become partners?”

“Four years ago. We were friends before that.”

“When did I first outrank you?”

Jean laughs. “You’ve always outranked me. You were late to the force, but you’re ten years older than I am, and you were a psychopath about getting promoted. I couldn’t keep up with you. I rode your coattails, and then the ride ended, and I started cleaning up your mess instead. I’ll be a Satellite-Officer until one of us dies.”

RHETORIC: There’s a bittersweetness to the way he says this. This is the closest to marriage that he’s ever wanted to get.

“Why did we get partnered in the first place?” Harry says.

“We work well together.” Jean takes a beat. “Worked.”

“We can still work well together,” Harry says. He points to his head. “Can-opener fully operational.”

“At least something about you is fully operational,” Jean says.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He’s making a very low-blow joke about your dick.

Harry’s mouth falls open. “No,” he cries. “No, not me!”

Jean blinks at him.

“Are _you_ why I know what Sildenaphil is for?”

“Oh, so you did get the joke!” Jean looks pleased. “I mean, we only used it, like, twice maybe. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“No!” Harry shouts in horror.

VOLITION: This is so emasculating. You have to pretend it isn’t happening.

Harry can’t really leave, so he buries his face in the crook of his arm.

“Alcohol inhibits erections,” Jean says. “The more you drank, the less you could fuck. We were barely fucking, toward the end.”

“Noo,” Harry moans into his arm. This is even worse than Contact Mike dying.

“I’ve never had that particular problem, personally,” Jean adds. “But I’m younger.”

“Please stop.”

There’s a knock at the door, then, and Kim calls, “It’s me.”

Grateful for the distraction, Harry goes and lets him in. He looks edgy as he walks into the room, or as edgy as Kim ever does.

“I think the person staying in the other room is an undercover operative,” Kim says. “I suspect from Wild Pines, though he could be from the Moralintern.”

Jean sits up straighter. “What was your read on him?”

“I saw him walking out of his room,” Kim says. “Military haircut. Thick rubber soles on his boots. The way he walked...” He shrugs, then says to Harry, “It’s like how we could both tell Klaasje had operational training. You just get a feeling.”

AUTHORITY: Either Wild Pines or the Moralintern is expecting the RCM to fail at containing the criminal element of the Débardeurs' Union. They still want to bust it.

“What’s he look like?” Jean says.

“Occidental,” Kim says. “Graying dark hair, light eyes.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Occidental is what you and Jean are.

“They’re lying in wait,” Jean says. “They want us to arrest the Claires, so they can move in before a successor is appointed.”

Kim nods.

“How would they know we’re here to arrest the Claires?” Harry says. “We didn’t put Holly’s murder in COMINSUR yet.”

Jean looks over at him. “Think, Harry… what did you request from ICP the other day?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Every single piece of information that the ICP has on the Claires.

“Son of a bitch,” Harry says, and impotently kicks the writing desk.

Jean turns back to Kim. “What do we do?”

Kim shifts his stance and folds his arms, his bomber jacket crinkling. “We aren’t here to bust a union, or enable it to be busted…”

“Is it a union?” Harry says. “Or is it a mob?”

“The Claires are clearly mobsters,” Kim says, “but the Union totals 2,370-odd members. The vast majority are just workers — not complicit in any crime, nor should they be punished.”

“You think Wild Pines cracking down on its union is punishment?” Harry says. “Kim, you giant communist.”

Kim laughs softly. “I’m not expressing an opinion. I’m just thinking long-term.”

“If we…” Jean taps the insignia on his arm. “... arrest the Claires and enable Wild Pines to fill the power vacuum, the people of Martinaise will recognize that as a hostile act against them by the RCM. We’ll be seen as breaking the strike in favor of the company. No one here will ever trust us again.”

“Precisely,” Kim says.

“The arrest might even come off as politically motivated,” Harry says. “Like we’re dredging shit up from twenty years ago to smear the Claires. Shit!” He kicks the desk again.

“Detective, I’m not sure what that desk has to do with any of this,” Kim says. “I think it’s innocent.”

Jean rubs his facial hair, then inhales. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, shit. I think this is what Pryce wants.”

Kim double takes. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a reason he wanted us down here so badly,” Jean says. “I couldn’t figure out what it was. Now I get it.”

“You think Pryce is in cahoots with Wild Pines?” Kim says.

EMPATHY: He doesn’t like to hear that. He’s really not enjoying being disabused of his boyish admiration of the 41st and its luminaries.

Jean shakes his head. “No, but I imagine that he sees the Union being busted as the easiest way to secure more funding from the Moralintern.”

“But it puts Martinaise back under the RCM’s responsibility,” Harry says. “We don’t want that, do we? Neither precinct wants that.”

“It’s too late,” Kim says. “You and I… what we did here… we lit a powderkeg. Unintentionally, but it’s lit. Whether we do nothing, or do something, we’re forced to act.”

“We can’t unfuck this,” Jean says.

Kim nods. “Harry,” he says. “What do you think should be our first order of business?”

“I think we should play it cool,” Harry says. “Play it loose, close to the chest. Let’s try not to bust into the harbor on day one. I think we should do normal cop shit. Cop around. Talk to the citizenry.”

“What happened to punching out Measurehead?” Jean says, though he looks relieved by this change of heart.

“We’ll have to punch someone else,” Harry says. Kim looks confused, so he adds, “We’re avenging Contact Mike.”

“Avenging him?” Jean says. “He died of a brain hemorrhage, not murder.”

Kim looks even more confused. “Anyway,” he says, “one thing we should do is avoid Elizabeth Beaufort at all costs. And if we run into her, we push the angle that we’re here to ease tensions.”

“The Union attorney?” Jean says. “I agree.”

“Why would the RCM send three detectives to Martinaise just to ease tensions?” Harry says.

Jean sucks his teeth and shrugs.

“Let’s hope the Union doesn’t think about that too hard,” Kim says.

RHETORIC: They will. They’ve been thinking about it ever since the three of you drove up and got out of Kim’s MC.

SHIVERS: In fact, Lizzy Beaufort is up in Evrart’s office right now, talking to him about this. Evrart knows there’s a good chance that Dros gave him and Edgar up — as he listens to her explain her legal options, he’s wondering if he can bribe his way out of this. He also knows, by now, that the signatures you gave him to get your gun back were illegitimate.

/

The rest of their day is spent copping around, as Harry suggested.

His first visit is to Cuno, who Harry describes to Jean as “an important CI.” Jean immediately looks to Kim for verification of this, and Kim says, wearily, “He is a twelve-year-old delinquent and drug user. But he has been, on occasion, and despite his best efforts, _moderately_ helpful.”

“He’s junior officer material,” Harry counters. “I think we should fast-track him. He could pass for fifteen.”

“Could he?” Jean says. “Is it the drug use that makes him seem older, do you think?”

“Partially,” Harry says.

“I was making fun of you.”

“I know.”

Cuno doesn’t know anything new, though, unfortunately. When Harry finds him behind the Whirling, he’s standing over a cargo crate, whacking the shit out of it with rocks. Cunoesse is nowhere to be seen, thank god.

“Where’d you get that?” Harry says.

Cuno doesn’t even look surprised to see him. “Cuno found it washed up in the bay.”

“What do you think is in there?”

“Fucking diamonds,” Cuno says matter-of-factly. “Or cocaine.”

Harry nods. A few feet away, behind him, Kim and Jean are shuffling their feet and muttering to each other. He turns around and shoots them a “let me work” look, and they desist.

“Listen,” Harry says, “anything weird going on, since we left?”

“Weird like your pig friend got his brains busted open?” Cuno says.

“Besides that. Has the union been up to anything weird? Have you seen anyone who looks out of place, or heard about anything funky?”

“What do the pigs think is ‘out of place’?”

“Suits,” Harry says. “Any suits sniffing around?”

Cuno shrugs. Around him, the wet grass sparkles, already greener since last week. He gives the cargo crate another strike, then says, “Cuno hasn’t seen any weird shit or suits. But he can keep his eyes out for the pigs, if the pigs are so hard up for information.”

“That would be good.”

“You got a new boyfriend,” Cuno notes, glancing behind Harry. “Binoclard not enough? Pigs like some fucked-up orgy sex? You all go back to the Whirling and fuck?”

“I don’t fuck Kim,” Harry says, then drops his voice. “I did used to fuck the other guy before I lost my memory, apparently.”

“No fuckin’ way!” Cuno sounds delighted. “The pigs really do fuck each other?”

“What are you doing?” Jean shouts.

Harry turns to him and spreads his arms in incredulity. “Police work!”

Jean wraps his arm around Kim’s shoulders and walks away with him. They stop, and they start whispering to each other.

“Your bitches are discussing you,” Cuno says. “This is why multiple bitches is a problem — they unionize.”

“Cuno,” Harry says, pulling a prybar from his pocket, “I would like to help you get this crate open.”

Cuno is delighted, but when they finally get the crate open after several minutes of concerted effort, all that’s in it is bananas.

“Fuck!” Harry exclaims. He was really hoping it was cocaine or diamonds.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: People usually don’t ship massive crates full of cocaine or diamonds on boats, then lose track of them.

“Cuno,” Harry says, extending a hand to him, “good work today. Keep an eye on the harbor for me.”

Cuno shakes his hand, then picks up a banana and whips it at the fence, where it explodes.

“Good stuff,” Harry says, before returning to Kim and Jean, who look at him expectantly. “He didn’t have anything to report, but he’s keeping an eye on the harbor for me,” he explains.

“Thank god for small favors,” Jean says. “Do you have any CIs in Martinaise who are over the age of twelve?”

Kim pulls his notebook from his jacket pocket and flips through it. “If we’re trying to avoid the Union, our options are limited,” he says. “There is your gang of anodic dance children in the church...”

“How many children has Harry taken custody of?” Jean says.

“They’re not actually children,” Kim says. “They’re in their twenties.”

“I know,” Jean says.

Kim glances sidelong at him. “You were watching us.”

RHETORIC: It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Jean says, a little impudently. He seems to reconsider that after a moment, and adds, “Lieutenant.”

Kim nods and continues on. “We could potentially approach the Union under false pretenses, if we wanted to. We could pretend we’re after Measurehead. After all, we _are,_ even if it’s the Claires we would really prefer to arrest, since he was acting on their orders.”

Harry looks over his left shoulder at the silent, red-splashed harbor, which looms in the distance, its towering cranes piercing the sky. “This is very frustrating and annoying,” he says. “I don’t love the position we’re in here.” He looks over at Jean, then remembers something from his case files. “You wanted that mural to stay up,” he says to him.

Jean takes a second to process this. “People liked it,” he says. “How is this related?”

“We’re not here to subvert the will of the people,” Harry says. “We’re not Krenel. We’re not hired goons.”

“We can’t condone political assassinations and the brutal beating of police officers,” Jean says, his tone souring.

“I know,” Harry says. “But we can’t sell everyone out, either.”

Kim clears his throat. “What if the Claires were deposed before being arrested?” he says. “The Union must have bylaws in place. The Claires have to replace each other to subvert term limits, so they do abide by some kind of rule of law. If we could give the union a reason to expel the brothers, and if someone else were to fill that power vacuum… Wild Pines wouldn’t have a headless union which they could easily bust. They would have to negotiate with the replacement. The strike could actually, in that case, be broken.”

Jean and Harry are both nodding.

“Is that our place?” Jean says. “To manipulate Union politics like that?”

“I wish it wasn’t,” Kim says. “But we haven’t been given much of a choice.”

“I think Lizzy would be a good Union head,” Harry says.

“The only thing we know about her is that she has a law degree,” Kim says. “And that she’s loyal to Evrart, so good luck with that.”

“Also, considering the Union is seen as the de facto government and law enforcement inside of Marintaise, we’re essentially planning a coup,” Jean says. “A coup in a district in which we do not even live.”

Kim winces in acknowledgement.

“Titus?” Harry suggests.

“We can talk about that more later,” Kim says. “We should actually stop talking about this here.”

“Maybe we call up Wild Pines,” Harry says, ignoring this very sound advice. “Joyce? Would she be discreet? I could ask if there’s someone in the Union who the company could see themselves working with.”

“Harry,” Jean says, winking at him. “You capitalist running dog.”

“I’m just throwing shit at the wall.”

“This is troubling,” Kim says. “We have very few allies. We might want to radio into the station and brief the rest of the task force.” A cloud passes in front of the sun, bathing them all in momentary shadow. “Who would side with us, versus Pryce, if pressed?”

“Jude and Trant,” Jean answers immediately. “Sundance too, actually, and probably Mack. Chester would most likely side with Mack, but he’d also bolt at the first sign of trouble.”

“We’d rely on you to get them on board,” Kim says. “I’m an unknown to them, and Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois is…” He tips his head in Harry’s direction.

“Yes, we know what I am,” Harry says, annoyed.

Kim smiles apologetically at him. “What about the rest of the station?”

“Are you asking me to out the communists?” Jean says. “Because there really aren’t any. It’s a police station, not a university.”

“Not communists,” Kim says. “Fellow travelers, sympathizers. Guys who wouldn’t like to see big business beat down the working man.”

“Where does Berdyayeva stand?” Harry asks Jean.

“With Pryce,” Jean says. “Don’t look to go over your head on this one — there’s nothing there but air.”

Kim starts walking away toward the Whirling’s alley gate, which is still shattered from Harry’s wild MC adventure. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s make this call sooner rather than later.”

Harry and Jean follow along behind him. As they step through the ruined gate, Jean says, “You did this, didn’t you?”

VOLITION: Just lie to him, you don’t need him busting your balls about it.

“No,” Harry lies.

DRAMA: Implausible, sire. A terrible performance.

“Yeah, okay,” Jean says. “I suppose it was some other drunk lunatic.”

“They’re all over the place these days,” Harry says.

Jean snorts, and Harry bumps shoulders with him. It’s a familiar gesture; brotherly but intimate.

/

After a long day of pounding the pavement, talking to half of the people they had talked to just a week ago (most of them befuddled to see Harry and Kim again so soon), they retire to the Whirling to eat dinner and go to bed.

Measurehead watches them from the harbor gate as they walk down the road, as if daring them to come arrest him. Harry sticks his tongue out at him.

He realizes while walking into the Whirling that his hands have begun to shake. It’s been a long day, and one without booze. He can’t deny the effects that withdrawals are having on his body — they’re the same ones that led him to crawl around his apartment the other night, sucking dribbles of vodka from bottles to calm the tremors that were wracking him.

Today isn’t as bad, but he’s nauseated with no appetite, restless, and agitated. The nausea gets worse as the sun sinks lower in the sky. It’s like his esophagus knows night is coming, and wants to protest.

Kim must notice this, because he gestures toward the nearest table when they walk in and says in his dulcet voice, “Detectives, you should sit. I’ll go order us some food.”

“Thanks,” Jean says to him.

Harry’s worried if he opens his mouth, he’ll throw up, so he nods frantically and puts his head down on the table.

“I can tell you’re not drunk,” Jean says, “so it must be that withdrawals are kicking your ass.”

Harry groans wordlessly.

“You probably don’t want to eat, but it actually will help.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You shouldn’t eat, fuck eating. You should take speed instead.

“I’m full of acid,” Harry mumbles.

“Yeah, you haven’t eaten all day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me to eat?”

“I’m not your mother.”

Without lifting his head, Harry turns it to Jean, who is sitting beside him, not looking at him. His legs are crossed, and one is bouncing. “Do I have a mother?”

“She’s been dead a while,” Jean says, pulling his cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

“Were we close?”

Jean shrugs, lighting the cigarette. “You didn’t talk about her much. You’re a Revolution-era person… it comes with the territory.”

Harry watches him smoke, feeling a tug in his chest. “Can you tell me what happened between us?”

“I thought I already did,” Jean says, his voice softer. He’s still not looking at Harry.

“No,” Harry says. “Not the whole thing.”

“I can when we go upstairs.”

“Okay.” Harry pauses. “You dumped me, didn’t you?”

VOLITION: Back away from this topic. This is a source of pain for you.

ENDURANCE: The knife of the world was already ten inches deep in your back, but Jean ending things twisted it.

“I didn’t dump you,” Jean mutters. His voice sounds choked. “I gave you an ultimatum. Either choose me, or continue to fall off the face of the earth. You chose the second.”

“That’s not what it feels like in my chest,” Harry says.

“Well, it’s what happened,” Jean says, smoking more furiously. “Regardless of your… chest feelings.”

“I think I took it as a betrayal.”

“You were a horrible, abusive, moribund alcoholic. You took everything as a betrayal. The sun rising in the sky was a betrayal.”

He sounds very angry. Luckily, Kim is back now.

“Kim,” Harry says, lifting his head. “Bad news, I think I’m dying.”

“You’re hungry,” Kim says, handing out sandwiches. “Everything okay?”

EMPATHY: If everything is _not_ okay, he’s going to give you two some privacy by going to his car to start the radio and listen to music in solitude.

Jean nods, though.

/

The couch is too short for Harry. When they retire to Klaasje’s room (he can’t help still thinking of it as Klaasje’s room), he tries to examine it from multiple angles, doing the geometry in his head. No matter where he stands, he comes to the same conclusion: it’s too short.

VISUAL CALCULUS: Yeah, there’s no way the math on this one works out in your favor. Sorry.

He looks hopefully over at Jean, who’s shorter than he is, but Jean reads his mind and says, “I’m taking the bed.”

“This is cruel,” Harry says. “I have brain and liver damage.”

“Self-inflicted,” Jean says, looking over at him, his expression pitiless.

Harry lies down on the couch and curls up like a shrimp so that he can fit on it.

“There you go,” Jean says.

“You were going to tell me about our relationship,” Harry says, sitting up.

Jean hesitates, but says, “Fine,” and takes a seat at the desk, their positions from earlier reversed. “What do you want to know?”

“How long were we together?”

“ _Together_ is a stretch,” Jean says. “We were best friends and partners who were fucking.”

“But you were in love with me,” Harry says.

Jean recoils as if slapped. “Who said _that_?”

“My brain,” Harry says.

“That’s a stretch, too,” Jean says, folding his arms across his chest.

DRAMA: He’s lying, sire.

EMPATHY: He might not have realized it was love. Sometimes people don’t.

“Maybe I was in love with you, too,” Harry offers. “I can’t remember.”

Jean lets out a pained scoff. “You were not _in love with me_. You treated me like shit.”

“Why did you put up with that?”

“Because it was only half the time. The rest of the time you were yourself.”

“You like myself,” Harry says.

“I did,” Jean says.

Harry nods. “You never answered how long we were together,” he says. “How long was it between me coming onto you, and you giving me an ultimatum?”

“Six months,” Jean says. “You were stressed out, you were working your ass off to get promoted again. You felt like you were losing control of the task force, which you were, because your drinking was starting to interfere with your work. So your response to that was to clear a shitload of cases, setting you up for a promotion, except that made you drink more.” He fiddles with the watch on his wrist, checking the time and then checking it against the clock on the wall.

EMPATHY: He’s working very hard to keep himself emotionless right now. Sprinting through the memories with his eyes closed.

“You were coming over to mine a lot,” Jean says. “I used to drink with you, sometimes… I felt like that was better than you drinking alone.” He’s quiet for another moment. “You’ve kind of really made me dislike drinking, actually.”

“And I came onto you,” Harry says.

Jean nods.

“Did I know you liked men?”

“Yes,” Jean says. “You used to tease me about it, but in a flirty way. I didn’t know what the fuck you were doing, or if you had ever thought about your own sexuality for longer than two seconds, I just accepted it and gave it back to you. That was our dynamic. Everyone at the 41st thought we were fucking _years_ before we started fucking.”

“Did I know you were attracted to me?”

“I guess you sensed it,” Jean says. “I never told you. Most of the time, it didn’t even cross my mind. Just sometimes… when you’d do something stupid, like finger guns, or wink at me…”

SAVOIR FAIRE: Jean likes The Expression!

He lets out a shaky breath, still avoiding eye contact with Harry. “Anyway, I thought I could pull you out of the abyss, but I couldn’t. If anything, I enabled you, and you got worse. You really rapidly deteriorated after your promotion. It was shocking.”

Harry is quiet. “Sorry,” he says.

Jean laughs in a broken way. “Well, as long as you’re sorry.” He gets up, then, slapping his hands against his thighs. “I’m going to bed. I get up early to run, and I’ll probably wake you on my way out, just so you know.”

“Wait,” Harry says.

Jean pauses, then with what looks like a great internal wrench, continues on his way up the stairs. “Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry goes after him, up the stairs, into the little bedroom where Ellis Kortenaer got his brains blown out. There are blackout curtains on the balcony window, now — kind of closing the barn door after the cows are gone, but oh well.

Jean is in the middle of getting undressed, but he clearly stopped when he heard Harry thundering up the stairs, because his shirt is half off his head and he’s perfectly still. “Go back downstairs,” he orders.

“Hold on,” Harry says, putting his hands up like a criminal. “I don’t want to fuck you. I have no intention to fuck you.”

Jean finishes taking his shirt off and flings it into the corner, then starts undoing his belt, shooting Harry a knowing look. He’s exactly as toned as Harry suspected (or remembered) — good for him. “Please. I know you better than _you_ know you, remember?”

“No, seriously, I was just wondering if I could sleep in the bed with you. I’ve been sleeping really badly. I think having company might help.”

“What if I don’t want to sleep next to you?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He does, though. He’s just worried he’s going to get a hard-on about it.

“I think you do,” Harry says, wagering wildly.

Jean strips down to his boxers, hits the light switch beside him, and goes over to the bed, climbing into it and pulling the covers over himself. Then he turns decisively away from Harry.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Go over there and spoon him. It’ll warm you up and feel good.

EMPATHY: That’s what he wants, anyway, he’s just being a brat because he hates your guts a little bit.

Harry shrugs like “fuck it” and starts disrobing, staggering around as he tries to pull his disco pants off.

“Stop it,” Jean says. “I hear you flopping around back there. Go downstairs.”

“Flopping?” Harry pants, tossing his clothes in the corner where Jean threw his own.

“You’re like a giant fish out of water,” Jean mutters. “Flopping. Drowning on dry land. Agony to look at.”

“I know you don’t hate me,” Harry says. “People don’t waste this much breath on people they hate.”

“Don’t they?”

“Yeah. We’re like René and Gaston. Or René and Dros.” Harry pauses. “Guess everyone hated René.”

“ _Who_?”

Harry collapses onto the bed beside him. “Doesn’t matter. Gimme some covers.”

Jean doesn’t move for a long moment, then budges forward slightly, giving Harry just enough room to cuddle up behind him.

His body is wonderfully alive, and full of warmth that feels nice on Harry’s skin after his long day of jogging around in the chilly air. Harry reaches up to trace his finger over Jean’s bicep.

“Don’t touch me,” Jean says. His voice is thick; he sounds like he’s about to cry.

“I can’t cuddle you without touching you,” Harry says.

Jean laughs a short, hysterical bark of a laugh. Harry presses his nose to the back of Jean’s head, inhaling the smell of his dark hair. Cigarette smoke and shampoo.

“You are killing me,” Jean whispers.

DRAMA: He doesn’t mean it.

VOLITION: Wait, doesn’t he? These guys might be lying to you again. Watch out.

Harry’s quiet for a moment, then offers, “I can go if you want.”

“No, don’t bother… you’re already here.”

Harry snuggles closer to Jean, lining up their pelvises, draping an arm over him. Jean wriggles up against him, letting out a soft sigh. A universe of emotion is contained in that sigh.


End file.
